Mr. B. taught AP American History as a straight lecture format. He was a good story teller but when I complained at the dinner table about the lack of student participation, my parents argued he was preparing us for college. He was a lean man who wore crisp dark trousers, white oxfords, ties. He kept the nail of one pinky finger long and well filed. When we asked a question in class he would become agitated and slam his fist down on his desk and, like a true American, menace, "This is my story!" He scanned the class for dissidents as we held our breath, stiff in our seats, our teenage hearts punching at our ribs. Then Mr. B's head dropped as his shoulders shook. He howled, delighted by our fear. We laughed nervously and refrained from asking questions.
And the phrases: "and they cleaned their clocks/plows." I can still recall his delivery.
ReplyDelete"There is ONE storyteller in this room and it is ME."
I opened the textbook once. It didn't compare, so I didn't do it again.